It wasn't meant to go this way The things we let ourselves believe
by 221blackandwhitestripes
Summary: Fix-it to The Lying Detective; After Sherlock and John fight, John decides to visit Sherlock in hospital and discovers something he never thought he'd see.


This story was inspired by this post:

pu post/159899222507/s4-related-drawing-prompts/u /p

It wasn't meant to go this way.

That's all that I can think. It wasn't meant to go this way.

I don't usually let myself lose my cool. I rein it in and use it at a precise moment to send a lethal amount of force and destruction at exactly the right time. But not this time. It seems like I just can't do it anymore.

"I think you need to tell your faithful little friend about how you're wasting his time because you're too high to know what's real anymore." My body quakes, my stomach turns. It's all unfolding before my eyes and I still have no fucking clue what's happening. Culverton Smith is laughing and laughing. I desperately want to block my ears, but choose instead to grit my teeth and bare it. It's like Moriarty is here. Like he's laughing at us both, over and over, telling me my best friend is a fake.

" _ **John, can't you see what's going on?**_ " I had felt so sure in that moment, completely sure that Sherlock was for real, that nothing anyone could ever say would change that. And then Sherlock had to go and fake his own bloody death and I can't tell if my own fucking best friend is telling the truth or not. How can I trust him? And yet… It's Sherlock. There was no way in the English language to describe the feelings I do or don't have towards that ridiculous man. All I know is that Sherlock is the closest thing I have to the life I used to live. And here I am betraying him with my very mind.

Shame floods through me, guilt sinking it's claws into my chest. I should be concerned, caring not doubtful.

"Sherlock?" My voice is stiff but I push through it. "Sherlock, are you alright? Sherlock, are you okay?" Concerned. Because I am, truly. Beneath the layers of doubt, of loathing, of confusion, I really care.

"He's got a knife. A scalpel. Look behind his back." Caos. How could it be true? No, don't doubt. Don't doubt. "I saw you take it, I saw you." There it is, in his own hand, and, oh shit, there Sherlock goes, leaping forward, waving it about like he doesn't even know it's there. Fear spikes through my heart, but I can master fear if I put my mind to it, I've done it a million times and will probably do it a million more.

"Sherlock, do you want to put that down?" The way he looks at it, his shaking hand. It's like Sherlock is broken beyond repair.

"Stop laughing at me!" Quiet. Shaky. Threatening. Dangerous.

"He's not laughing, Sherlock." I desperately hope Sherlock will listen to me for once but it feels like I've already lost him.

" **Stop laughing at me!** "

"Sherlock!" I step in front of him, arms up, ready. It's instinct at first. Almost like a natural reflex. One sharp twist and a hard hit to his hand and Sherlock's disarmed. I'm not sure how, but I drive him up against the Metal door behind him. Suddenly I'm shouting at him. "Stop it! Stop it now!" I throw his head against the cool metal door. It bangs loudly and for a moment it's almost feels like I'm hurting myself. It angers me. Why should I feel anything for him? He's done _nothing_ to deserve it. "What are you doing? Wake up!" I slap him. Hard. He groans and that hurts too. Mary would have laughed. Would've called me a bitch who bitch slaps and then laughed. No. It's not fair. It's not fair that she's gone, it's not fair that she jumped in front of _him_. It's not fair. I didn't even get the chance… It's not fair.

I punch him. Hard. It hurts like hell but at the same time it's nothing. He knocks back and then falls. Then he's looking up at me. Like I've hurt him. And that's not fair at all. How can I hurt him? He's… Sherlock. My Sherlock. Or maybe he's not anymore. Maybe that man died the moment Sherlock let my wife die. Or when he shot Magnussen. Or maybe it all ended the moment Sherlock decided to lie to me and fake his own death. Either way, it's not fair. And it never will be. And yet, here he is, looking up at me with sad, grief stricken eyes. Is this just another game of his? Another stupid game. Am I really supposed to believe that any of this is real?

"Is this a game? Is it just a bloody game?" I yell, I spit and I hit. I punch him again and again, harder and harder. And when my fist is aching and his face is covered with blood and bruises, I start to kick, His gut, his chest, his legs. I take his beautiful body and ruin it while he lies there groaning. Nurses appear, almost out of nowhere, and start trying to pull me away.

"Please, please, please, please, no violence. Thank you, Dr Watson. But I don't think he's a danger anymore. Leave him be." Thank you? He's thanking me. I did none of this for him, couldn't care less about him. I pull away from the nurses in disgust. My breathing is heavy, so damn heavy, and I can't think straight. I want to jump on him all over again, make him feel what I feel, what I've felt. And he's still lying there and, for some reason, I hate it.

"No, it's okay." Confusion quietly overpowers the mass of anger roiling inside me. "Let him do what he wants." He sounds wrecked, broken. I don't know if that makes me happy or heartbroken. "He's entitled." Sherlock looks right and me and I swallow hard. This is not what I wanted. It wasn't meant to go this way. "I killed his wife." Before this moment, I didn't realize it was possible for someone to be both completely right and wrong at the same time. I didn't realize my brain could scream both yes and no together so deafeningly, like they are trying to drown each other out but both failing to.

"Yes, you did." I say it because it's all I can say. Agree with the man who knows everything and nothing. My walking contradiction who's managed to make me a contradiction as well. I can't look at him anymore. I can't look at the regret on his face or the utter sadness in his eyes. So I walk away.

But it wasn't meant to go this way.

So I have to fix it.

Which is why I'm standing outside Sherlock's hospital room door, trying to gather the courage to go inside. I don't know why I'm hesitating, really. It's not like I haven't done this countless times before, ending up in hospital is almost always a sure thing when you fight crime. I suppose the difference is that this time it's _me_ who did it. I put him in that hospital bed. But as much as I'd like to, I can't run from the consequences of what I've done.

I take a deep breath and push open the door. It squeaks a little on it's hinges as I walk through it and close it again.

"John?" Weak. That's the only way I can describe his voice. Weak. I've gone and taken Sherlock, my strong powerful Sherlock, and made him weak.

"Y-yeah. It's me." My voice cracks. I guess we're both a little weak.

"What…" He trails off like he can't quite decide what he actually wants to ask. "What… what are you doing here?" Confusion. What does he mean, what am I doing here? Of course I'm here. How could he expect me to be anywhere else.

I look up into his ever changing eyes and finally see it. I sent him away when he hurt me and now he expects me to run away now that I've hurt him. Oh Hell, look at the mess I've made.

"Sherlock I'm… I'm so sorry. I never meant…" I begin.

"It's fine, John. You are already forgiven." Sherlock looks down at his feet. "I shouldn't have expected anything less. In fact, I expected more."

"Why?" I ask. I want to know. I need to know.

"Why do you think?" Sherlock drones, somehow able to call me an idiot without having to use the words. Oh. He thinks that…

"Sherlock." Sherlock continues to stare at his feet. "Sherlock!" I walk across the room until I'm standing directly by his bed. He finally relinquishes and draws his eyes up and looks at me. "You did _not_ kill my wife." I tell him sternly. Sherlock turns away, facing the other side of the room. I don't understand how a one movement can happen so slowly and painfully but at the same time be so fast and abrupt. I can see his back now. The covers have been pulled down and the gap in his hospital gown has pulled open and I can see his back. It's covered with strong bruises from me knocking him against that metal door and onto the hard concrete floor. But there's more. There, beneath a strikingly perfect bruise, is a long silvery scar. And there, behind another bruise, a long purple one. That wound must have been deeper.

As my eyes adjust to the complex mix of bruise and skin, I begin to see more and more scars, the same pattern repeated over and over. Something inside of me quakes and my heart pounds with something dark and bleak.

"Sherlock?" My voice is hoarse. Oh, my throat is dry. "What… What..?" I can't even say it. Somewhere, I feel like I already know. But at the same time I don't. And I _need_ to know. Despite the fact that whatever it is could quite possibly split my world in two.

"What are you talking about?" His voice breaks through my mind and it's a welcomed reprieve from the buzzing storm of endless thoughts in my head. Sherlock's confusion leads me to slowly reach out and gently trace the line of one particularly long scar. I feel Sherlock's body jump at my touch and he immediately turns around to face me, his eyes wide with what I can only assume is fear. "John, I-"

"Sherlock." I warn him seriously. "We've both told enough lies. Please don't tell another."

He sighs and sits up in his bed, making tiny pained sounds as he does so. He drags his fingers through his greasy hair and hangs his head. "Then let me tell you this honestly." He looks up at me, his eyes capturing mine in an almost hypnotic gaze which causes me to lean closer. "You don't want to know."

"Tell me anyway." I say breathlessly, swallowing thickly. I need to know. Sherlock continues to look at me, seemingly unsure if he should tell me or not. "Please." I request, desperate to know, to understand. Is this how Sherlock feels all the time. How does he survive. Oh wait... -I look at Sherlock- …He doesn't.

"John I… I should have you know that none of this is your fault. Have you got that?" He stares at me with fierce determination in his eyes. "So if you try and say otherwise, I swear I'll get up out of this bed and smack you about the head." I nod. It's not my fault. Good. I wouldn't be able to stand it if… It's okay. It's not my fault. "We.. After I… Died." We both swallow thickly. It's strange to think that we're still in sync after everything that's happened. "After that.. Well, as I explained, I needed to stop the work that Moriarty had started. So I… Left." He looks down like bad memories were swirling through his head, stuff I could only imagine.

"Alone?" I ask hoarsely, unsure what answer I actually want.

"Alone." Sherlock nodded. Oh. Sad. Sherlock shouldn't be alone. And yet, that's what I've left him to be. Alone. "At first it was… invigorating. Exploring new countries, blending in, using disguise after disguise to manipulate the people around me. I felt stronger, smarter than I had in a long time." He looks at me. "But I missed you." I'm struck and I think my heart stops for a second, but that's probably just my imagination. "Not only that, I missed everything. Nice hot tea, the warmth of the fire. Mrs Hudson's inane nattering, the loud wallpaper. Every little thing suddenly seemed so much bigger and louder when I didn't have it." Sherlock looks down, his face deeply saddened. I understand. I've felt that exact same thing the moment I left Baker street last time, and the time before. Even now, I long to be sitting in front of that fire, telling Sherlock about case after case as he rejects all of them. "But I got by." Sherlock continues. "I was focused on the mission. I figured that if by some chance I could actually do it, bring down Moriarty's network, perhaps I could… Perhaps I could come back." He looks at me. He looks bitter. It's not an expression that suits him at all. "Funny, isn't it? The things we let ourselves believe." Oh, Sherlock.

"Anyway," He swallows and gathers himself. "Everything seemed to be going well enough. There were a few rough patches and many close calls. Some of them my fault." Sherlock looks at the line of scars leading up from his forearm, bold under the harsh hospital lighting. My eyes sting unexpectedly. When I found out Sherlock was alive I actually thought Sherlock had enjoyed his time away. That it had all been a big, fun game for him or something. Funny, isn't it? The things we let ourselves believe. "Either way, time seemed to fly in a way that moved incredibly slowly." Sherlock looks to me in askance to see if I understand. I do, of course, so I nod. "I'd almost finished the job, in fact. Everything looked so... hopeful. Crazy, isn't it?" He shakes his head. "The things we let ourselves believe." He looks at me, solemn now. "It was the last mission. Serbia. It was supposed to be a breeze." He shrugs. "I don't know how it happened. Perhaps I was overconfident. Perhaps I was simply unlucky, though we both know I don't believe in luck. But, _somehow_ , it went wrong." He looks down. "I had to run. It's funny. I didn't realize it before, but all those time I'd run with you, side by side, it had seemed so much more... Exhilarating. It was fun. We would laugh. But that time… Just no. No." He shook his head vigorously to emphasize his point. "That night it felt like I was running faster than I ever had before. And yet, they still caught me." He laughs bitterly. Like it's funny. It's not funny. I want to tell him to stop now. My guts are heaving and I feel like I'm about to be sick. Whatever he's about to say next… I don't know if I can take it.

"John." Something in his voice forces me to look at him. How is it that he still holds that power over me? It would be unfair if I didn't miss it so much. Miss him telling me what to do. Crazy, isn't it? The things we let ourselves believe. "John, you must see that I had only intended to be away from you for twelve months. Twelve months. That's it." I nod in understanding. But then I pause. Twelve months. Then what…? Oh. Oh God, no.

"Sherlock, what…? What…?" **Get it out Watson!** For God's sake, get it out. "Sherlock." I swallow hard. I can do this. I can do this. "You… You were gone for two and a half years. What… What happened?"

"My back, John. For eighteen months, they… My back." His voice breaks and a tear slides down my face. Oh God, I'm crying. I want it to stop but I can't. I breathe through my nose and swallow a threatening sob. No, it wasn't meant to go this way. "I wanted it to end, I wanted... But I couldn't do it. I kept thinking about you and Baker street and…" He laughs bitterly. "Idiotic, isn't it? The things we let ourselves believe." He shook his head and a tear slipped from his eye. Look at us. We're crying together. For some reason, it makes me feel closer to him than I've felt in a long, long time. "I escaped twice. They found me both times. And, each time, everything got.. Worse." He shudders and I shudder with him. A sob lets loose from my throat and I shut my eyes to try and escape it. As if I could. Idiotic, isn't it? The things we let ourselves believe.

"It was Mycroft in the end who saved me. But before he did he… He…" Sherlock swallows hard and I itch to touch him, to comfort him in some way he'd understand. "He watched, John. He watched me…"

"Oh God." I sob, burying my head in my hands. How could this have happened. To Sherlock of all people, my Sherlock. I try to keep my eyes open because everytime I close them, all I can see is Sherlock chained to dirty concrete walls, powerless against the onslaught of pain thrown at him. My all-powerful man rendered obsolete.

"But it was fine. It is fine." His voice cracks on the word fine and my heart breaks. Because it wasn't fine, it isn't fine, it will never be fine. "I came back. Quickly. And three days later I was with you again. Albeit, not the way I had intended. Ridiculous, isn't it?" He shakes his head. "The things we let ourselves believe." Oh God. Oh God, no.

"Sherlock." My voice sounds terrible. Like It's been drowned in the tears running down my face, which I guess it has. "When you came back, I… I…" I swallow hard. "I hit you and I…" My shuddering breaths and subsequent sobs stop me from speaking further and I can't carry on any longer.

"John… It's okay."

"NO IT'S NOT!" I shout. " **IT'S NOT OKAY.** " It's not. It's not. It's not. How could he even say that? Sherlock had spent eighteen months in excruciating pain. And then he'd gone and let me throw him to the ground, punch him, head butt him. And then he'd gone and smiled at me like everything was fine while he was probably dying inside. And all that, I'd believe he was just being a snarky idiot. Ridiculous, isn't it? The things we let ourselves believe.

"John." He leans closer to me, laying his hands on my shoulders. "John?" And, all at once, I let go. Sob after sob comes bursting through and my tears soak Sherlock's hospital gown when I rest my head on his shoulder. He holds me close. Like I'm the one that's broken. Like all that pain and hurt had happened to me. Why? I should be holding him, not the other way around. "Shhh, shhh. It's alright. It'll all be alright." His voice is soothing, calming. It helps, somehow.

"I don't understand." I say finally after a long time of the two of us simply holding each other.

"You don't understand what?" He asks quietly.

"I don't understand why you don't despise me." I say bitterly.

"Despise you? Why would I despise you?" And he's actually confused. Oh, Sherlock. How can you be notorious for being cold hearted yet so compassionate and forgiving at the same time. If only they could see you the way I do, maybe then they'd understand.

"Sherlock, I blamed you for my wife's death when it wasn't even your fault. I actually hurt you. I took away the bright future you clearly wanted. If I'd just waited a couple more months maybe we'd… We'd…" Maybe we'd be together. That's what it boils down to. We could've been together. And, for some reason, not having that is my deepest regret.

"John, it's my fault for even believing that we could… have that. I was so focused on what I wanted that I didn't even stop to consider what you might have wanted. I just thought that you and Baker street and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade would all be waiting for me when I got back. And when I found out you weren't, I was… Angry. I had no right to be." He sighs. "Silly, isn't it? The things we let ourselves believe."

"No." I say firmly.

"No?" He asks, puzzled.

"No. it wasn't meant to go this way." I pause and take a deep breath. This is going to take courage. I just hope I can make it through this. "I wasn't meant to marry Mary." Sherlock's mouth opens in shock and he looks like he's about to protest but I won't let him. "I was meant to be with you. That's why I resented you so much after Mary's death. I never got the chance to even tell her. I came so close, so many times. But I just couldn't do it. I planned it out in my head a billion times. I'd tell her the truth, get a divorce and move in with you. And, somehow, everything would fall together. I'd simply walk into your arms and say 'I'm home' and everything would be as it should've been. But I never got the chance. And I never will." I shake my head sadly. "Silly, isn't it? The things we let ourselves believe."

"John…" Shock is in his voice. Quiet wonder. "I never knew…"

"You?" I laugh bitterly. "The Great Sherlock Holmes didn't know?"

"No." He shakes his head seriously. "I didn't."

"Well, I did want that." I swallow thickly. I can do this. "I… I do."

"You do?" He replies desperately. I nod in answer, unsure if my vocal cords are up for a verbal reply. "John, I…" He swallows thickly. "I do too." I look at him with wet eyes, unsure for a moment if I'd heard him correctly. But I can see it in his eyes, he really means it. And, all at once, I'm completely ecstatic and I'm pulling him in and suddenly we're kissing. It's different, it's new, it's everything I ever wanted and everything I'll ever need. Sherlock's face is beautiful beneath my fingertips and my heart is soaring high above us, bursting like a million fireworks.

The thing about pain is that everyone assumes it tears people apart. They're wrong. When pain is shared between two people, two totally unique and different people, it actually pulls them closer together.

Maybe it wasn't meant to go this way. But it is what it is. And that's the way it should be.


End file.
